


I'll Do Anything

by sator_square



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-30
Updated: 2012-03-30
Packaged: 2017-11-02 18:25:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sator_square/pseuds/sator_square
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock holds Mycroft's betrayal over his head to finally get him in his bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Do Anything

Mycroft knew he had an intruder the moment he arrived home at his flat. He could have attributed this deduction to his superior intellect, but even a complete idiot would have been able to notice the set of muddy footprints leading up to but not away from the door, as well as the obviously scratched up lock.  
  
Either he had an exceptionally careless intruder, or he had one who wanted to blatantly announce his presence in the flat. Mycroft felt an unwarranted stabbing sensation in his chest as he noted the precise size of the shoes. Many men had that shoe size. There was no reason to assume that it was...  
  
Mycroft rushed to the door and threw it open, moving faster than he had in years. His heart nearly stopped when he caught sight of the figure casually lying on the sofa, muddy boots and all.  
  
“Hello, Mycroft.”  
  
“Sherlock.” Mycroft's legs buckled slightly; he put a hand on one knee to steady himself. “It's been some time since we last saw each other.”  
  
Sherlock sat up instantly, eyes searching Mycroft for clues. “You really thought I was dead.”  
  
Mycroft returned the look, searching for any indication of what Sherlock had been doing during the three years he'd been... not dead, apparently. Unfortunately, his mind was too frazzled to truly focus on anything beyond the muddy boots. Sherlock had muddy boots, which meant – that he'd been stomping around in the mud before he came, likely for the specific purpose of getting mud all over the flat when he broke in.  
  
Beyond that, Mycroft was at a complete loss.  
  
“Yes, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied, staggering over to his brother. “I really thought you were dead,” he added, choking slightly on the words. He wavered for a moment, the old habit of physically keeping his distance trying to reassert itself. He broke after only a few seconds, grabbing his shocked brother into the first hug they'd shared since Sherlock was a teenager.  
  
Sherlock just sat there, unmoving and uncommenting, while Mycroft held on as tightly as he could. After several seconds, however, Sherlock began to return the hug, if somewhat hesitantly.  
  
Part of Mycroft wanted to hold on to his baby brother forever; if they simply stayed as they were, Sherlock could never make anymore enemies, never get into trouble, never _die_ again.  
  
However, the rational part of him knew that they had to stop at some point, and that if he didn't break it off, Sherlock would. He slowly released Sherlock from his arms, then sat down next to him on the sofa, getting a small amount of mud on his trousers. Normally, it would have irked him beyond imagining; today, he couldn't bring himself to care. “Why?”  
  
“Moriarty.” Sherlock launched into a detailed explanation of Moriarty's plan to kill John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson. He didn't bring up the fact that Moriarty hadn't threatened Mycroft, but the unspoken problem hung in the air between them.  
  
“I would have helped you, if you'd come to me,” Mycroft said when he was finished.  
  
“I know,” Sherlock replied. “However, I couldn't trust you to keep my secret for as long as it needed to be kept,” he added pointedly.  
  
Mycroft winced. “You have no idea how sorry I am--”  
  
An unreadable expression flashed across Sherlock's face for a moment, quickly replaced by a neutral one. “I'm sure.”  
  
Mycroft gripped the fabric of his jacket with tight fingers. “ _Really_ , Sherlock. If I could undo what--”  
  
“As you've always said, there's no point in getting overly sentimental about the past,” Sherlock replied breezily. “We can talk later. I have to go see John.” He moved to get up.  
  
Mycroft grabbed his arm. “Obviously, I can't undo that which is already done. However, I could try to make it up to you.”  
  
Sherlock's expression became once again unreadable. He sat back down, jerking his arm free of Mycroft's grip and crossing it against his chest. “I'm listening.”  
  
“John and I – between the two of us, we've largely managed to clear your name. I could get you back with the police as a consultant, if that's what you desire.”  
  
Sherlock laughed, the sound harsh. “It is one of the things I _desire_ , but it's hardly a massive sacrifice on your part, Mycroft.”  
  
Mycroft had only a moment to puzzle over the unusual emphasis; unfortunately, it wasn't long enough. He fell back into a more familiar pattern, assuming that Sherlock probably wanted him to suffer for his forgiveness.  
  
It wasn't as though he didn't deserve it on some level.  
  
“Then you choose a punishment you find acceptable, Sherlock. I'll do anything.” Mycroft cringed internally at the thought of various humiliating things Sherlock might demand of him. His brother wasn't a forgiving person by any stretch of the imagination.  
  
“Really?” Sherlock replied, skepticism evident in his tone. “ _Anything?_ ”  
  
Mycroft swallowed. “Anything that doesn't bring harm to an innocent person.”  
  
Sherlock was eying him intently. “You'd even...” He paused. “...have sex with someone, if I ordered it?”  
  
Mycroft couldn't help the laugh that escaped him. “Yes, Sherlock. I'd even have sex with someone,” he replied. “It isn't the horrifying experience you've always been convinced it is,” he added before he could stop himself. He knew immediately from Sherlock's expression that it had been a mistake.  
  
“So, you would be willing to fuck _anyone_ I choose?”  
  
Mycroft started to feel a tad uneasy. Clearly he was missing something, here. “Anyone consenting and of age,” he replied. “Though I'm sure you already have someone suitably unpleasant in mind.” Mycroft had no idea who it could be. He couldn't see any reason why Sherlock would order him to have sex with John, Lestrade, or Mrs. Hudson. He supposed that there could be someone Sherlock had met during the three years he'd been dead. It disturbed Mycroft to realize that he knew absolutely nothing about his brother's current circle of acquaintances.  
  
Sherlock looked at him for a very long moment before replying, an unpleasant smile covering his face. “Me.”  
  
Mycroft felt his blood run cold. “You?” he replied, the word barely audible. The small laugh that followed had a sharp edge of hysteria to it. It should have been funny, but it wasn't.  
  
It wasn't because he could see it now – the preemptively defensive tone and body language, the hint of nervousness in the eyes that Sherlock just couldn't completely hide – it was the same posture Sherlock had always used when forced to come to him for something he wanted, but legitimately feared being ridiculed for.  
  
From that alone, Mycroft could tell that Sherlock meant every word of it. It didn't change his reply. “You don't mean that.”  
  
Sherlock grew more tense; he shifted his legs, visibly readying himself to storm out of the room. “ _Would_ you do it, if I asked?”  
  
Mycroft felt the entire situation spiraling out of control, if it had ever been in his control to begin with. “You don't even like sex.”  
  
“As you've always been quick to tell everyone, _I wouldn't actually know_.” Sherlock's body started shaking slightly, out of anger or fear or possibly a little of both.  
  
Mycroft's breath caught in his throat. Suddenly, every conversation he'd ever had with Sherlock on the subject of sex was at the front of his mind, tormenting him. Every insult, every stinging comment, everything. What he'd always seen as one of Sherlock's peculiarities or annoying social weaknesses suddenly took on a whole new angle, one he was potentially responsible for.  
  
Had Sherlock become this way because of the way _he'd_ acted? Or had that just made things worse? Was this... desire of his something that could have been temporary, could have been solved a long time ago, if he'd felt like he could talk to Mycroft – or to anyone – without being mocked?  
  
And, of course, his brother would never have felt comfortable enough to make this kind of demand if Mycroft hadn't screwed up badly enough to give him this kind of leverage.  
  
Mycroft closed his eyes, feeling his complete failure as a brother crashing down on his shoulders. His eyes shot open again at the impatient sound of Sherlock's voice.  
  
“Well...?” Sherlock was starting to look less angry and more ill-at-ease, obviously ready to bolt at any hint of a negative answer.  
  
Mycroft swallowed nervously, knowing that there was only one answer that wouldn't send Sherlock running out the door, never to speak to him again. “If you absolutely insisted on it, yes, I would,” he replied neutrally, hoping to keep it hypothetical.  
  
Sherlock scanned his face, looking for any hint of deception. He then lay back down on the sofa, setting his feet down behind Mycroft. “I'm insisting.” He stared at Mycroft, challenging, then looked away.  
  
Mycroft forced himself not to panic. Sherlock probably just wanted him to prove he wasn't bluffing. Sherlock couldn't handle sex with anyone, let alone his own brother. He'd tell him to stop soon enough. Yes, that was most certainly what was going to happen. “What exactly do you want me to do?”  
  
Sherlock shrugged. “You know far better than I do how this works.”  
  
Mycroft felt the irrational urge to insist that sex was just two people hugging each other for a very long time and if Sherlock wanted to claim otherwise he'd need to offer proof, but Mycroft knew better than to antagonize his brother just then. “You'll need to be more specific. I have no intention of doing anything you don't want me to do.”  
  
Sherlock looked uncertain for a moment, and Mycroft had the slim hope that having to say exactly what he wanted would be too much for Sherlock to deal with. His hopes were quickly dashed, however. “From what I've observed, it usually begins with kissing.”  
  
Mycroft couldn't decide if that was better or worse than the possible alternatives. “Very well,” he said. He hesitated for a moment, then leaned down and briefly pressed their lips together in an extremely chaste kiss.  
  
Sherlock glared at him. “A _real_ kiss, Mycroft.”  
  
Mycroft sighed. He pressed a hand to Sherlock's cheek, then leaned down, avoiding actually pressing their bodies together. He kissed his brother more firmly this time, parting his lips just enough to make it count.  
  
Sherlock was tense, initially, but he began responding almost immediately. He reached a hand up and buried it in Mycroft's hair, pulling them closer together. His lips moved slowly at first, awkwardly mimicking what Mycroft was doing.  
  
Mycroft realized then that Sherlock would probably copy everything he did on some level; this was, after all, his only sexual experience. Mycroft shuddered, not the least bit in pleasure, and closed his eyes. It didn't help him any – without any visual distractions, all he could focus on was the feel of Sherlock's hand on his neck, the sound of their mouths moving against each other, and Sherlock's rapidly increasing skill in the area of kissing.  
  
After a couple of minutes, Sherlock pulled back, breathing heavily. “Interesting.”  
  
Mycroft said nothing.  
  
“Are we doing this properly? People use their tongues for this, don't they?”  
  
“Sometimes,” Mycroft conceded reluctantly.  
  
“Do it, then.”  
  
Mycroft found Sherlock's growing confidence disturbing – it seemed less and less likely that he was about to call the whole thing off. Mycroft kissed him again, this time sliding his tongue lightly over Sherlock's.  
  
Sherlock once again held back at first, allowing Mycroft to demonstrate before attempting anything himself. He got the hang of it far too quickly for Mycroft's taste, however, and soon Mycroft felt his face heating up as Sherlock's tongue plundered his mouth.  
  
And then Sherlock sucked on his tongue, and it felt like lightning coursing through his entire body.  
  
Mycroft jerked backward, eyes wide. He tore his hands away from Sherlock as though burned. His breathing was somewhere between panting and hyperventilating, and all he could think was that he wasn't supposed to be the one reacting to this, that the only thing that could possibly make this whole thing worse was getting off on it as much as Sherlock was.  
  
Sherlock looked shocked and angry when Mycroft pulled away. He opened his mouth as though to shout something at him, but then closed it again, seeming to suddenly notice something interesting about him. His eyes roamed Mycroft's face and body, looking for clues.  
  
Mycroft stiffened, then tried to level Sherlock with his usual impassive gaze.  
  
It didn't work. Sherlock gave Mycroft a wicked smirk, then pulled him down again. Mycroft put his hands on Sherlock's chest in a failed attempt to keep their bodies from getting too close together. He made a small, mortified sound as the bulge in his trousers brushed against Sherlock's thigh. “Sherlock--”  
  
“I knew it,” Sherlock said, tone smug. He pushed their mouths together, this time seizing complete control of the kiss immediately.  
  
Mycroft tried desperately not to respond as Sherlock sucked on his bottom lip, but his hands were shaking, getting tangled in the front of his brother's shirt. He struggled to pull them free, inadvertently rubbing his hands over the bare skin of his brother's chest.  
  
Sherlock let out a small gasp, then a noise of frustration when he realized Mycroft wasn't going to do it again. He grabbed Mycroft's hand and planted it firmly under his shirt.  
  
Mycroft slid his hand around Sherlock's waist, breaking the kiss and hugging him tightly.  
  
It didn't have the effect he'd been hoping for. Sherlock let out a soft, surprised moan as their bodies ground together, then rubbed himself hard into Mycroft's hip. Mycroft shifted to the side, trying to roll off of Sherlock entirely. Unfortunately, Sherlock immediately climbed on top of him, rubbing their bodies together in a way that set Mycroft on fire.  
  
Mycroft froze, resisting the horrifically tempting urge to just give in and rub himself off against his brother's thigh. His resolve began to waver within seconds, however, and soon his hips were thrusting frantically upwards.  
  
In a last ditch effort to regain some kind of control of the situation, Mycroft pushed Sherlock away and reached for the front of his trousers, roughly stroking him through the thick fabric.  
  
Sherlock trembled violently as he came, then fell bonelessly down on Mycroft's body. His cheeks were still flushed, his breathing still uneven, and his lips were bright red from the heavy kissing. He gave Mycroft a somewhat dazed smile, then closed his eyes.  
  
Mycroft waited tensely for his brother to do something, say something, but it never happened. Sherlock's breathing grew lighter, steadier, and his body remained still.  
  
It took Mycroft roughly a minute to realize that he'd fallen asleep.  
  
Mycroft remained where he was anyway, wary of possibly waking his brother and triggering more demands if he tried to move. He was still painfully hard and very, very aware of Sherlock's body resting on top of his. He would just have to wait for his arousal to die down on its own; he certainly wasn't going to reward his body with physical release, given the circumstances.  
  
He focused on the sound of his brother's steady breathing, relaxing further and further until sleep finally claimed him.  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
Sherlock was gone when he awoke, leaving behind nothing but muddy tracks to indicate he'd ever even been there.  
  
Mycroft was immediately overwhelmed by a rush of feelings. Joy that his brother really was alive. Guilt at what they'd done and the betrayal that had led up to it. Concern for his brother's well-being. Worry that Sherlock wouldn't consider their bargain truly fulfilled.  
  
None of these feelings decreased over the next few days, as Sherlock visited his friends to announce his survival and his intention to return to work as a consulting detective. Mycroft made sure that the path was clear, of course, and Sherlock was back to working with Lestrade within the week.  
  
They didn't speak during that time, and Mycroft wondered continuously if this was a sign that things were worse than they had been, or if it meant things were simply returning to normal.  
  
It wasn't until two weeks after his return from the dead that Sherlock showed up in his flat again. Mycroft knew what was coming before he even heard the words.  
  
“You never gave me what you promised.”  
  
Mycroft sighed. “No. No, I didn't.” He allowed Sherlock to pull him into the bedroom without protest.  
  
That didn't mean he was about to give in, however. Sherlock had been successfully distracted last time; there was no reason Mycroft couldn't distract him again.  
  
He pushed Sherlock down on the bed and climbed in next to him. He kissed his brother with far more passion than was good for his sanity, then reached for Sherlock's trousers, ending things before they could go too far.  
  
Sherlock spent the night cuddled up next to him, but was once again gone before he woke up.  
  
They fell into a routine of sorts. Sherlock would show up, Mycroft would get him off as quickly as possible, and then they would just lie next to each other for a little while, Sherlock sleeping, Mycroft pointedly ignoring his body's insistence that he should just give in and fuck Sherlock already. He also tried to ignore the emotional high that he was starting to feel whenever they kissed, but it was getting impossibly more difficult every time it happened.  
  
It was also getting progressively more difficult to keep Sherlock satisfied with what they were doing. The third time Sherlock showed up in his bed, he already had his trousers off, forcing Mycroft to stroke his cock without the benefit of a cloth barrier.  
  
He'd never felt more perverse in his life – at least, not until a month later, when Sherlock pulled his hand away and pushed his head downwards. He hesitated only a moment before taking Sherlock's cock in his mouth, running his tongue around the head. Sherlock buried his hands in Mycroft's hair, instinctively thrusting upward.  
  
Mycroft pinned Sherlock's hips to the bed with one hand, batting away his brother's hands with the other. Sherlock gripped the bedsheets, watching Mycroft's mouth move up and down his cock with wide, dark eyes.  
  
Mycroft increased the tempo, then swallowed around him. “Mycroft-- f-fuck--” Sherlock cried out louder than he ever had before, collapsing on the bed immediately afterwards.  
  
Mycroft pulled back, feeling sick. No, not feeling sick. Feeling aroused and desperate to touch himself, to have Sherlock touch him, and feeling like he should feel sick for what he's just done and feeling guilty that he didn't...  
  
Mycroft squirmed, keeping his hands away from his lap through sheer force of will. He thought he saw Sherlock watching him before closing his eyes and falling asleep, and it gave him a sense of foreboding.  
  
He saw both Sherlock and John on a case the next day. Sherlock was far more cooperative than he'd ever been before. Just before they parted, John commented: “You know, the two of you are really getting along a lot better these days.”  
  
Mycroft forced a smile. “Quite.”  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
It took only a couple of weeks for Mycroft to grow accustomed to the new part of the ritual, as much as it pained him to realize it. Kissing his brother, sucking him off, and holding him afterwards – it was all starting to seem disturbingly normal. He grew used to falling asleep still hard, his only satisfaction coming from thoroughly fucking Sherlock in his dreams.  
  
His determination never to do it in real life was slowly crumbling.  
  
So, when Sherlock eventually pinned him to the bed and swallowed his cock whole, he was only able to put up a token resistance before collapsing into a miserable, writhing heap. “Sherlock, what do you think you're-- ah--!”  
  
Sherlock was far, far too good at what he was doing, but then, he'd learned from a master.  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
They were getting close to the day when Sherlock would finally demand that he go through with his original promise. Mycroft could feel it. He found himself thinking about it at the least opportune times possible, too. He was halfway through an elaborate scenario involving Sherlock barging into the Diogenes Club and demanding to be fucked in front of everyone when he was forced to admit that it wasn't entirely worry fueling his continued thoughts about the subject.  
  
He had to do something, quickly.  
  
There was only one possible thing that would get Mycroft out of this without forcing him to go back on his word, and that was Sherlock deciding not to go through with it of his own volition. Unfortunately, Mycroft could tell that his brother wasn't going to be losing interest in sex any time soon, so that left only one possibility – diverting Sherlock's sexual interest onto someone else, if possible.  
  
Mycroft had arranged for others to stumble upon the perfect companion, when useful. There was no reason he couldn't do it for his brother.  
  
No reason other than having no idea who Sherlock might be attracted to beyond him, anyway. Mycroft decided to throw as many potentially compatible matches at his brother as possible, with an emphasis on men with whom he shared various characteristics – age, size, personality, as far as anyone could ever match his personality.  
  
Several detectives experienced sudden, unexplained transfers between departments. A number of attractive gentlemen experienced problems so bizarre and inexplicable that they were forced to seek out the services of the world's only consulting detective.  
  
And Sherlock Holmes came storming into the Diogenes Club, demanding to see Mycroft.  
  
Mycroft ushered him into a private room, feeling uncomfortably reminded of the fantasies he'd had.  
  
“I know what you were trying to do,” Sherlock told him. “I'm not letting you get out of this, Mycroft.”  
  
“I'm not trying to get out of anything, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied. He could already feel his body responding to Sherlock's presence.  
  
“Fine,” Sherlock said, crossing his arms. “Then you'll have no problem fulfilling your promise _right now_.”  
  
Mycroft wanted to point out that their location was a fairly obvious problem, but such was the punishment for trying to get out of their deal.  
  
He swallowed. His body was more than ready, but there was still a tiny piece of his heart, his sense of brotherly responsibility, screaming at him that he couldn't do this. “You said it would make up for what I did. Will it, Sherlock? Will that be it?”  
  
Sherlock waited a long moment before responding. “...yes.”  
  
Mycroft locked the door. “Let's get this done with, then, shall we?” He took hold of Sherlock's wrist, gently pulling him toward the desk at the back of the room. He pulled a small tube of lubricant out of his inner jacket pocket and set it on the desk.  
  
Sherlock looked at it with a distinctly nervous expression, then abruptly slammed their mouths together.  
  
Mycroft kissed him back, feeling a disturbing pang when he realized that this would be the last time they ever kissed like this. He drew the kiss out longer than he should have, then bent Sherlock over the desk, tugging his trousers down.  
  
He prepared Sherlock slowly, thoroughly, finding the spot inside him that made him squirm and beg – _Mycroft, you idiot, just do it, please..._  
  
Mycroft felt a thrill of power at reducing his brother to such a state, then a pang of guilt at enjoying it as much as he did. He pulled his fingers out, hesitating only a short moment before burying himself in his brother's body.  
  
Mycroft gasped, feeling something inside himself break at that moment.  
  
He tried to fuck Sherlock gently, but Sherlock made it impossible, demanding that Mycroft do it _harder, faster, damn you,_ and soon he was fucking Sherlock hard against the desk, hand fisted around his cock.  
  
There was no hugging afterwards, no sleep. Mycroft cleaned the both of them up, and Sherlock left without another word.  
  
Mycroft felt his stomach sink.  
  
~*~*~*~  
  
The next two months were uneasy, at best. Sherlock had kept his end of the bargain – he hadn't mentioned Mycroft's betrayal again, and he didn't seem to be holding it against him in the slightest.  
  
At least, as far as Mycroft could tell, given the extremely limited amount of time they actually spent with each other. Sherlock didn't drop by his flat or disturb him in the Diogenes Club. He didn't spend the night sleeping in Mycroft's arms, either.  
  
Mycroft started to feel like he'd lost something important, as the days passed.  
  
He felt a small amount of surprise when he was invited to a Christmas party at 221b, presumably arranged by John, despite the fact that the man no longer lived there.  
  
Mycroft lingered behind after the others had left, though he didn't have a good reason for staying. He stood awkwardly at the top of the stairs, trying to think of something to say. Without their usual antagonism, he was at something of a loss.  
  
“Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” he said, then made the split second decision to give his brother a hug.  
  
Sherlock stiffened in surprise, then hugged back, resting his head on Mycroft's shoulder. “Merry Christmas.”  
  
They stayed like that for far longer than was appropriate. After a minute or so, Mycroft felt Sherlock's cock pressed hard against his hip.  
  
Mycroft pulled away when his own cock started to pay attention to the situation, but he didn't let go entirely. He rested his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, looking him in the eyes.  
  
Sherlock looked back at him, unmoving. “I suppose you'll be going now.”  
  
Mycroft swallowed. He knew he _should_ leave. He should keep their relationship firmly within the bounds it should have been in all along. The earlier incidents were failures he needed to move beyond, needed to allow Sherlock to move beyond as well. He stroked Sherlock's curls absently as the battle raged inside him...  
  
...only to lose it entirely when Sherlock slammed their bodies together. Sherlock kissed him, bit his neck, pushed him toward the bedroom...  
  
Mycroft couldn't find the necessary willpower for even feigning resistance. He was fucking Sherlock through the mattress not a minute later.  
  
Later, as Sherlock lay asleep on top of him, he contemplated what the development meant for their relationship. He'd already thoroughly demonstrated that he wouldn't be able to resist Sherlock's advances, so there was little point in creating a plan that required him to do so. Even if he succeeded, it would only result in pushing Sherlock away.  
  
He felt horribly guilty, but he knew from long experience that guilt could be relieved by changing his view of a particular situation. He wasn't taking advantage of Sherlock; he was providing Sherlock with something he needed. Sex could be dangerous if done with the wrong people, so in a way, Mycroft was protecting him.  
  
Sherlock was more cooperative while they were in a sexual relationship, and it was generally easier to keep track of him. They had a way of relating to each other that didn't involve antagonizing each other.  
  
The guilt still hadn't gone away, but Mycroft wasn't worried. If he repeated his reasoning often enough, it would sink in eventually.  
  
It had to.


End file.
